We, as a public, even as a literary public, are not always in a state of preparation, so frames matter. One cannot always be ready to be moved. Its true that soldiers have been known to keep poems in their breastpockets. Captives have been known to feed off of memorized poems for survival. So we know that a work will live anywhere, anyhow, if it is so sorely needed. But most of us, who do not live so clearly on the edge, need a little help if a poem is to find its way into our daily business.

Okay, I confess. More than half a year has passed since I’ve done my own laundry. And before you start imagining putrid piles of clothes cluttering a Brooklyn abode, or bi-weekly garbage bags of musty discards making their way to the Salvation Army and a wallet of maxed-out credit cards to boot, let me say: it’s not even like that. Since I discovered the luxury, I’ve indulged in drop off service. Ten dollars for ten pounds. I pick up my threads next day, my unmentionables folded into origami hellos—smelling of a springtime not of my choosing. The last time I tended to my own laundry was this past summer on a Greek island, where I spent a month at a writing workshop. Washing machines were not prevalent on Thassos, so I scrubbed my clothes in the bathroom sink and hung them on the line to let the breeze do the rest—an unexpectedly gratifying task. Yet, upon my return to New York, I...

The train doors open. We board the Q cool as a pinstripe suit, we use different doors, scattering ourselves randomly about the car.   As the doors close I become painfully aware of the fact that I would never make it in any sort of espionage work; the excitement terror and anticipation burn on my face clear as a babies conscience. It takes all my effort to keep the corners of my mouth from curling up in a smile. This is going to be a train ride unlike any other.   There is something terrifically terrifying and deeply liberating about sharing your art with a car full of unsuspecting commuters who have not asked for it. Perfect strangers going about their separate endeavors, headed in different directions unified for a time by the complete happenstance that they find themselves on this particular Saturday afternoon, to be on this specific train, in this exact car, at this...